A/N: I realized something as I read over the latest reviews; I'm in the triple digits! Over 100 reviews, where most other stories I've glanced at only have a handful, fifty at the most. And not one of those reviews I've gotten has been negative. Good gravy! Now the pressure's on. I gotta be extra attentive to what I write, because I'm not about to let this end with a whimper.
One of the reviewers (sorry, I forgot your name!) said they'd like a clearer description of Chloe. I'm not terribly good at that, but I'll give it a shot. To my mind Chloe's a combination of Gina Torres and Lena Olin, if that makes sense. It's the best I could come up with. How you all interpret that is strictly up to your imaginations. :-D
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Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters.
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Rorschach's Journal: October 5, 1985, 11:58P.M.
Found two inebriated boys torturing dog. Thought it was another person, from the screams. They'd set the animal on fire. Gave boys a few bruises to remember me by. Put dog out of its misery. Evil claiming younger lives every day. Soon muggers and rapists won't even be old enough to shave. Innocents becoming endangered species, soon to be extinct. Will I be strong enough to fight entire city?
Rorschach tucked the leather-bound journal into his coat, pocketed the pencil stub. He climbed down from the rooftop of the crumbling tenement to the street below, strolled down the poorly lit avenue with his gloved hands tucked in his overcoat pockets. Prostitutes arranged themselves to either side of him, offering their wares with sultry looks and suggestive poses. Rorschach ignored them all. Fewer drug pushers, he noticed. What happened to Ogre had gotten around, frightened some of the other drug manufacturers away. There would be more, of course; there always was. But for now, at least, the streets were a little cleaner. It gratified the vigilante to see some tangible results from his efforts. Gave him some meager hope that it wasn't all in vain.
Was this how Chloe felt, he wondered, those rare times when someone's life actually improved because of her healing touch? Were they enough to balance out the hopeless ones; the winos who drank until their skins turned yellow from jaundice, or the prostitutes dying slowly from innumerable diseases? Two nights ago, he recalled, she had wept when the test results for a six-year-old had come back from the lab, diagnosing him with gonorrhea. She had called Child Services, of course, but the damage to that child's innocence was already done. The next night Rorschach had tracked down the child's parents and thrown them off the roof of their tenement. The police had called it a double suicide, the fools. Tonight, he was after a man who habitually beat his wife. Chloe had managed to convince the woman to seek help at a women's shelter, mostly due to the fact that the wife was pregnant. Now Rorschach would make certain the husband kept away from her, permanently. He approached the apartment building, flexing his gloved hands in anticipation.
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The next day he went to see Chloe at her favorite spot at the wall and found her talking to another man; tall, gorgeously handsome. He looked like a model in a shampoo commercial. He said something that made Chloe laugh, and Walter felt the hard stab of jealousy. Chloe noticed him and motioned him closer. "Walter! I want you to meet a friend of mine." She placed a hand on the man's arm, far too friendly for Walter's liking. "This is Matthew Parson, one of our volunteer doctors," she beamed, "Matt, this is Walter."
"Hey, nice to meet you." The man offered his hand. Walter ignored it, merely glowered with eyes like spears of ice. The doctor's smile faltered slightly. He lowered his hand. "Well, gotta be getting back," he said awkwardly. With a final nod to Chloe, he walked back to the clinic.
Chloe turned to the redhead, frowning. "You know, that was pretty rude even for you."
Walter settled his back against the wall. "Don't like him."
"You just met him! What's not to like?"
"Pretty boy," he grumbled under his breath. Chloe's hearing, however, was excellent.
"Pretty b--" she stopped, eyes widening as a new suspicion dawned. "Are you jealous?"
Walter watched the passersby with disinterest. "Don't be stupid," he growled, then winced internally at the petulance in his voice.
He is jealous. A gradual smile curved her mouth. She moved to stand in front of him, caught his eye. "Hey," she touched his cheek with the back of her hand, light and gentle, "You don't have anything to be jealous about. He's just a friend." She could see the doubt remain in his gaze. "Would it make you feel any better if I told you Matt's gay?"
Surprise, then another, darker emotion flickered over his expression. "He's homosexual?" He said the word with the same inflection others would say "leper." It rubbed Chloe the wrong way. "Yeah," she retorted sharply, "So's his boyfriend."
"Puts his hands on other men, on children--"
"For god's sake, Walter!" Chloe threw up her hands in exasperation, "Matt is not a pedophile, and he's not a pervert. He's in a stable, monogamous relationship--"
"With another man."
"Fine. Why don't I give you his address so you can hurl a brick through his window?"
Walter grimaced; it was subtle, but Chloe had gotten good at reading him. Her expression softened. "Why don't we change the subject?"
"'Kay," he sighed. But at that moment an all to familiar car pulled up to the curb. Chloe groaned, "What now?"
Detective Steven Fine exited his vehicle and approached the nurse. He took no notice of the street person with the crazy sign. Several patients on their way to the clinic's entrance gave him a wide berth; law enforcement wasn't popular in this neighborhood. "Mrs. Whitfield."
"Let me guess," Chloe sighed, "You wanna ask me some questions."
The detective nodded. "Do you know a Raymond Stein?"
Oh, god. Chloe schooled her features into a (hopefully) impassive mask. "His wife's a regular here."
"Any idea where she is now?"
"She left him. That's all I can really say."
Steven Fine nodded. "Mrs. Whitfield, we found Raymond Stein's body at the bottom of the stairs in his apartment building."
"He fell?" she asked, hopeful.
The detective shook his head. "The amount of damage sustained suggests he was thrown down the stairs. Repeatedly."
"Poor bastard," Chloe said with utter lack of sincerity.
"Yeah, crying shame," Fine agreed.
"What does it have to do with me?"
"Mrs. Whitfield, there seems to be a disturbing trend among some of the patients who frequent this clinic," the detective stared at her with piercing eyes, missing little, "Lately quite a few of them have wound up murdered."
"It's a rough neighborhood," Chloe shrugged, "And I already told you, everybody uses this place sooner or later. It's a poor area, and we're a free clinic. Frankly, detective, I think your grasping at straws."
"That may be," Fine conceded, "But I've learned to trust my gut over the years, and my gut tells me those deaths and this clinic aren't just coincidence."
She'd had enough of this. "Well, until your gut gets a warrant, I'm going to have to ask you not to come back here." Her gaze rivaled his own in unsettling intensity. "Your presence makes my patients nervous and they have enough stress in their lives."
Detective Fine managed to hide his frustration, barely. Damn, she wasn't going to give him a thing. He knew she knew something, but she was just too smart or clever to let anything slip. "Very well, Mrs. Whitfield," he sighed, nodded politely, and returned to his vehicle. She was right; he had no tangible evidence, just intuition. Unfortunately, intuition wouldn't stand up in a court of law. He started the engine to his car and drove off in search of easier prey.
Chloe rounded on Walter only to discover he had quietly slipped away during her questioning. Her hands bunched into fists and her teeth ground together. She stormed back into the clinic, livid. The anger didn't fade as the long hours passed. After closing up, she stomped up the stairs to her apartment, slammed the door shut behind her. Walter was already there, seated on her bed, hair slightly damp and face scrubbed clean from using her shower. Chloe ripped the hair scrunchie from her ponytail and flung it at him. "Goddammit, Walter! Are you trying to get caught? Are you trying to ruin things for the clinic? If the cops can find the connection to this place, how long do you thing it'll take before the patients put it together? They'll be too scared to come here when they need us!" she shouted.
Walter stared at her with his cold Kovacs face. "If innocent, they have nothing to fear."
"Oh, come off it, Walter!" Chloe scoffed, "Everybody's guilty of something, especially in this area. And even if they are innocent, they'll still be too scared to get help at the clinic because everybody thinks Rorschach's a fucking lunatic!"
Walter had never seen her so angry; never heard her use such strong language. He felt the righteous fury of Rorschach rising in response. "Evil cannot go unpunished," he rasped.
"You have a whole city to take your issues out on," Chloe snapped, "You can damn well keep away from my clinic."
"Your clinic," he scoffed, stood to face her eye to eye, "A haven for whores and thieves and junkies, run by liberals and sexual deviants. You think you're making things better with your band-aids and pats on the back?"
"You're right," she said coldly, "Brutality is so much more effective."
Walter snarled and headed for the fire escape window. He didn't need this shit. But Chloe darted into his path, blocked his escape. The anger had abruptly left her face, replaced with something far more frightening to the vigilante. Her head tilted as she regarded him thoughtfully. "Not like you to run away from a fight."
He could have shoved her aside, could have knocked her down with his hard fists and harder words. Part of him wanted to hurt her. Instead, he turned and sat on the bed once again. Chloe moved to sit beside him. He kept his eyes forward, not looking at her.
"Sometimes I think you want to drive me away," she said quietly. She leaned, planted a soft kiss on his rough cheek. Walter shivered.
"It won't work, you know," she whispered in his ear, kissed it teasingly, "I love you too much."
The words bludgeoned him. Walter turned on her, grabbed her shoulders, held the surprised woman at arm's length. "No you don't," he said, voice rough with something other than Rorschach's harsh rasp, "You just think you do because you're lonely. You can't…" He struggled with the words. "I don't deserve you."
Chloe stared at him with sad eyes, cupped his face in her hands. "Baby, it's emotion," she said with gentle intensity, "Deserving doesn't have anything to do with it. There's no controlling or rationalizing it. It just is." She kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose, his lips, soft and deep. "I love you," she whispered.
Walter opened his mouth, but the words could not get through the painful tightness in his throat. Chloe smiled. "It's okay. You don't have to say it." She kissed him again, more passionately than before, and they fell onto the bed, hands clutching and roving over each other. And as they made love, Walter wished he had the strength to let her go, but his selfishness held on too tightly.
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Rorschach's Journal: October 8, 1985, 2:30A.M.
Found a woman trading her daughter's innocence for heroin. Girl no more than ten years old. Vacant eyes. High as a kite. No reaction as I dealt with her mother. Left her in front of hospital. Can only hope she shakes the habit before she grows up. City doesn't need another strung-out whore. Part of me thinks I should have snapped her little neck rather than leave her at the mercy of so-called authorities. Anything would be better than this.
He gazed from his concealing alley at the grimy street. For a city which never sleeps, there was depressingly little activity this night. A stray cat nosed through the refuse from an overturned garbage can, its fur coat matted and filthy, ears ragged from past battles. It seemed to sense the vigilante's gaze and looked up, eyes flashing in the dim streetlight. The two hunters took each other's measure, then the cat returned to its feeding and Rorschach returned to his writing.
The city is rotting from the inside like an infected tooth. Decay is spreading, but they refuse to see, and those who do see are powerless to stop it. The rot has set too long, unchecked. Watchmen had tried, at least, but we were too few, and now I'm the only one remaining. I'm tired.
He thought about Chloe, asleep in her bed. In her way, she too fought the unstoppable tide of corruption and violence. It only seemed to be getting worse; old women woke in their shithouse apartments covered in rat bites, schizophrenics starved to death on the streets as they babbled to the voices in their heads, mewling children born to girls little more than children themselves, and all the while the pigs watched and smirked as the vermin slowly exterminated themselves. It wore at the soul. Somehow, Chloe kept going.
He didn't write any of this. Chloe was part of Walter's world, not Rorschach's. She had no place in his journal.
Rorschach put his journal away, stepped out into the night. He followed the familiar route to the clinic's darkened building, climbed the fire escape to the window. He smirked at how easily he gained access to her home, even as he worried over it. She really should take precautions, he thought. Lord knew what sort of freak might get in. Rorschach closed the window behind him, removed his hat and face. Now he was Walter. He crept through the darkened room, down the narrow hall leading to the bathroom. Showered quickly, then tiptoed back to where the bed sat against the wall, covers rumpled over the familiar slumbering form. Walter crawled in beside her, put his arm around her. Her warmth against his body relaxed him; the tensions of the night eased from his spare frame. His eyelids started to grow heavy.
Chloe inhaled deeply, stretched, felt the familiar body pressed against hers. She rolled carefully on the narrow mattress until she faced him. Dim light filtered through the window curtains and shone on her eyes, off her teeth as she smiled. "Hey."
"Hey." He felt her hands wander over him, felt a stirring in response. His own hands crept under her T-shirt, cupped her warm breasts, felt her nipples harden against his palms. Lips found each other in the dark, tongues caressing and probing. Walter's boxers slid off his hips, down his legs. Chloe's shirt slipped over her head, tossed carelessly aside. She fumbled with the drawer on the nightstand, pulled out a condom, put it on him, then straddled him. She lowered herself onto his straining member with a sigh, put her hands over his bare chest and started riding him. Their movements were slow, languid, both only half awake. It gave their lovemaking a surreal quality. Even their orgasms seemed slow to complete, stretched out over several moments in one long, exquisite crash.
Afterwards, the woman asleep in his arms, Walter wondered how, no matter how grim Rorschach viewed the world, Chloe always managed to make it seem bearable. Then he wondered if he did the same for her.
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"Now remember, Hamish," Chloe said sternly, "You gotta eat something once in a while. Don't just keep popping iron pills every time you feel peckish."
The old man squinted through his flyspecked glasses at her. "What?"
Chloe leaned forward. "Food, Hamish!" she bellowed, "Eat something!"
"Alright, alright! Don't hafta yell." The old man rose from the exam bed and hobbled for the exit, grumbling over the state of things when nobody respected their elders.
The phone rang. "I got it!" Rachel hurried to snatch the receiver from its cradle.
"Next!" Chloe called out. A huge, neckless man covered in tattoos slunk towards her. One of his beefy hands held a bloodsoaked hanky to his nose. "It won' stob bleeting," he twanged.
"Well, that's what happens when you shove things where they ought not to be," the nurse answered testily. "What is it this time, Leroy? Coke? Or did somebody dare you to shove another toy car up there?"
What she could see of Leroy's face looked ashamed. "Somebuddy paid mbe ten bucks t' tringk a bottle o' tequila tru mby doze."
"The whole bottle?" Chloe wasn't sure whether to be disgusted or impressed.
"'Cep de worm."
"Naturally, one must have standards." She rolled her eyes, but couldn't hold back a smile. Poor, gullible Leroy. He'd put so many foreign objects up his nasal passages it was a wonder he could still smell anything. It was to the point that he only had to stand up fast to get a nosebleed. "Have a seat and I'll get the coagulant."
"Chloe," Rachel shouted, holding up the phone, "Call for you."
Puzzled, Chloe took the receiver, asked Rachel to take care of Leroy. She put the phone to her ear. "Hello?"
When Walter didn't see Chloe at the wall, a small stab of fear ran through him. He hurried around the side of the building, peered up at the second floor window. Was there movement? He hid his sign behind a dumpster, climbed the rickety fire escape. The window slid open before he reached it, a harried Chloe peered outside. She waved him over. "Get in."
Inside he saw a suitcase lying open on the bed, half filled with hastily piled clothing. The fear returned, like ice in his veins. "What's happening?"
Chloe yanked a mess of shirts from her dresser, added them to the pile in the suitcase. "It's Elsie. Did I tell you about her?"
Walter nodded. Elsie Mayweather, Chloe's aunt and sole surviving relative. She owned a little house in an equally little town called Jubilation. As a child, Chloe spent her summers there. She said those were the happiest times for her growing up.
"I got a call from Lila Danvers, her doctor," she crammed a dozen pairs of underwear into the general mess, "Elsie had a stroke. I'm…I'm going over to take care of her for a while. I don't know how long I'll be gone." Chloe stopped, pressed the back of her hand to her mouth as she struggled for control.
Walter, feeling helpless and overwhelmed, stepped close to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. Chloe turned, hugged him tightly. Walter put his arms around her, awkward. He had no experience in comforting a distraught woman.
"Will you come with me?" she whispered.
Walter froze. "What?"
Chloe pulled back far enough to look him in the eye, her expression sad and needy. "Will you come with me?"
Go with her? Leave New York? Walter had never been out of the city, not once. What would happen if he went? Would he be able to leave Rorschach behind? Did he even want to?
Leave crime unchecked. Foul deeds unpunished. Run away like all the others, like Dreiberg and Veidt. Rorschach's mental voice was laced with contempt. Walter hesitated. "Chloe, I…"
"It's okay," she shook her head, eyes heavy with disappointment and sorrow. "It's fine. I understand." And the hell of it was, she did.
Walter brushed a lock of hair from her face, placed a hand against her cheek. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," she repeated without much conviction. "Out there in the sticks, no violent criminals to fight, you'd probably go stir crazy." She chuckled sadly.
Walter helped her pack, then carried her overloaded suitcase as they walked to the bus depot together. There was a bus line that went all the way to Jubilation; the kind where half the stops were nothing but a sign next to a fenced pasture in the middle of nowhere. Walter loaded the case in the bus's luggage compartment for her. They faced each other for one long, uncomfortable moment, then Chloe put her arms around his waist.
"I'll be back in time for Halloween," she promised, her smile hopeful, "We can make a day of it. Dress up like sane people."
A smile tugged at the corners of Walter's mouth. "How do sane people dress?"
"Damned if I know." She kissed him, hungrily, desperately, as if afraid he might vanish once she'd gone. "I'll miss you."
Walter nodded. He didn't trust his voice to speak at that moment. As he watched her climb aboard and the bus roared out of the depot, a terrible sense of foreboding came over him. He feared he might never see her again.